


You Are The Everything

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Inspired by Music, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Second Person, Post S8, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2366465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>You kiss him with no one watching. He kisses back, just a touch, and that’s enough.</i>"</p><p>Comfort is taken along the roadside in Kansas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are The Everything

The rain ricochets off the midnight black roof of the Impala as Dean pulls to the side of the road. You can’t see more than two feet in front of you; it’s dangerous to continue in this weather, even with the semi-regular flashes of lightning in both the front windshield and rearview mirror. The only manmade lights visible are the indicators on the dashboard, illuminating the tachometer and clock radio that never seems to display the correct time.

In the darkness, Dean’s watch glows faintly; it’s three in the morning. You were supposed to have been back at the bunker by now, but the Impala had had an issue about a hundred miles back. Something about an oil leak that had you standing outside of the car while Dean attempted to remedy the problem without the aid of a service station. You convinced him to go; there was a city center only four miles away and it was almost ninety-seven degrees in the daylight. He agreed, reluctantly. He doesn't like the weather just as much as you.

Four hours, a few hundred dollars and one disgruntled hunter later, you were back on the road. Dean wanted to drive through the night; Sam and Kevin were awaiting your return from the hunt. You were on a time schedule. You were supposed to have been home at nine, at the latest. Albuquerque and Lebanon weren’t that far apart, a ten-hour trip at the most, but the rain put a damper on your plans. It had been light at first, a few passing sprinkles from barely-gray clouds. The bottom fell out after passing through Dodge City, the sun having gone down long since.

You were alone on Route 50, no cars or other landmarks in sight. “I can’t see _shit_ ,” Dean growled, looking wearily through the windshield, wipers moving at their fastest. They worked to no avail. You said nothing; waited for him to make a decision. You haven’t spoken to him directly since Clayton when he asked if you were alright, if your shoulder was bothering you. ‘ _The bastard got you good, Cas. You don’t have to be so stoic about it – you’re human now, you’re allowed to tell me if you’re in pain_.’

You didn’t answer him. He wouldn't understand. You spent the majority of your existence being a wavelength, never having to feel emotion, hunger, _pain_. But now it’s all you can concentrate on. The eight inch gash trailing your shoulder and into your clavicle, stitched back together by the hunter’s own hand – you showed no emotion towards it, but inside, you were screaming. Normally, such wounds would heal in minutes. This would take weeks of incessant pain and fresh stitches, painkillers as far as the eye could see, if Dean would allow you them. He has yet to come up with a plausible excuse for his aversion to analgesics.

Lightning flashes overhead, the crack of thunder following immediately after. You’ve been parked near a ditch for a total of ten minutes before Dean stopped his fidgeting and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it into the back foot well. “Looks like we’re campin’ out here for the night,” he says, resigned. His eyes refuse to open fully; for the past twenty miles, he’s been fighting off sleep. You have too, but it doesn't come easily to you these days. You sleep when your body demands it, often in the most inconvenient of places. The bags under your eyes are more pronounced as your humanity progresses; Sam had suggested listening to music, Kevin to white noise. Dean was of no help.

He’s content to sleep in the drivers seat; the engine has long since been turned off, the light of the instruments no longer illuminating the face of the man you’re currently loath to look at. “You tired?” he asks; his arms are crossed, brow furrowed pensively in your direction. You nod, continuing to look at the rain pelting the glass, streaks glowing in the flashes of the storm. “Y’were up all night, you sure you don’t wanna take my advice?”

“And what advice is that?” you ask, turning to look out of the passenger window. You know good and well what _advice_ it was – he wants you to sleep with him, in his bed. You don’t understand why – in all the time you’ve known him, he’s never deliberately shown his affections in such a manner. He’s never… _cared_ , or at least never shown it. But maybe there’s something he hasn’t told you – maybe this is his way of apologizing. Of trying to help you assimilate into society. To give you the home you’ve never had, the feeling of being wanted.

You deny his request on every occasion; each time, he looks a bit more forlorn. You don't understand why. You don't want to be pitied just because you’re human, especially by him. But you’re alone now – you have no choice.

Dean averts his eyes, lips pursed. “You know what I’m talking about,” he mumbles. “You haven’t been the same since… _then._ You always look like you’re pissed about something, you barely sleep, eat… I’m _worried_ about you, man.”

“You have no reason to be.” You didn't intend for your words to sound as cold as they ended up, but you can visibly see Dean shrinking back into himself. His regret resounds throughout your shared space. “I’m fine. You don’t need to burden yourself with me.”

“That’s kinda my job.” He’s trying to lighten the atmosphere. It’s what he does. Around you, especially. He knows what you’ve done for him, every bit of it. He worries because he cares, in his own dysfunctional way. He won’t allow himself affection, but he attempts to give those around him more than they need. Directed at you, it feels like sympathy. You don’t want it if it doesn't ring true. “I just… I don’t want you thinking you’re in this alone.” In the darkness, you can see the redness painting his cheeks, hear the embarrassment in his tone. You know how monumental this is, coming from him. “We’re… I’m still here. If that means anything.”

It does; you don’t let it show on your face. “I don’t need your pity,” you tell him. You hear him sigh, hear the shift of fabric on leather; he’s moved away, closer to the door.

But what _do_ you need? If not pity, then what?

“Just forget it.” You hear nothing of him for another few minutes, just the ever present sound of the rain overhead, the storm refusing to cease its grip. It sets the mood, you figure; somber, looming. In that moment, you are the only two in existence, scant feet separating you; the chasm feels like miles. _He wants to make penance with you – why won’t you let him_? the thought rattles endlessly.

So why don’t you?

You give no indication of your acceptance. Instead, you kick off your shoes and crawl over the front bench seat, situating yourself along the passenger door. Uneasily he notices your movement and follows, long limbs struggling to make it through the gap. Neither of you fit, but you find a way. He lies back, taking up a good portion of the bench, socked feet touching the paneling of the armrest. You peel off the flannel he gave you the first night of your return and maneuver yourself over him, resting your head on his chest, one arm between you and the seat, the other draped over his front. Knees brush through jeaned fabric, toes toying with one another unconsciously. It’s not comfortable, not in the least. It’s warm in the car – the heat from his body, the erratic rhythm of his heart against his chest, into your ear, make it unbearable.

He touches you in reverence, calloused fingers trailing skin you’ve only just recently begun to feel. You wonder why he does what he does, why he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Like you’re God’s greatest creation. You’re nothing of the sort. You've killed, you’ve rebelled against your family. You’ve committed atrocities that humankind cannot even begin to comprehend. You caused the Angels to fall. You’re human because of your choices. And despite that, he’s still here. In the backseat of his car with the sounds of the storm echoing your sadness, your incomparable despair.

You clutch his shirt tight between your fingers, wring it in your grip. A wetness neither of you will mention soaks the fabric beneath your eyes. The hand that had been stroking along your clothed ribs now moves to your hair, fingers twirling the longer strands on occasion, more often caressing your scalp, rubbing circles into your neck. He’s mindful of your shoulder; he never touches the wound, never lets you put unnecessary pressure on it. He’s gentle. He cares. You can feel the tenderness in his caress, the affection he doesn't expect to be returned.

He touches you because he loves you. He’ll never speak it aloud – his pride won’t let him. You feel an unknown warmth in your heart, a strange tightness in your chest. You can barely breathe in his presence. You don’t know what love feels like, but if you could put a name to this feeling, those four letters would be it.

You close your eyes to the rain and choose to listen solely to his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your touch. You smell him, the scent of worn leather and dark aftershave, the sweat on his skin. The lingering hint of alcohol on his breath as he sighs, whimpers, as you press a short kiss to his heart. His grip on you tightens – you allow it, revel in his presence.

There are no words for what he does when you speak those three words to him. He doesn’t speak. He tenses like he doesn't believe you, like you’re lying to his face. You say it to him again, lips against his chest, neck. “I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles, almost an apology. You tell him he’s wrong – he deserves the world. He deserves love. He deserves _you_. You’ve watched over him since his birth, you’ll be there until the day he sighs his last breath. There is nothing in this world you would rather do than be at his side.

He doesn't pity you. He wants to help you, he wants to do right by you. But he’s scared, and you know it. He doesn't want you to leave, doesn’t want you to stop loving him. You kiss him with no one watching. He kisses back, just a touch, and that’s enough. You both fall asleep in the dead of a Kansas night and wake to the sun rising over the painted horizon, lighting up the drenched fields of wheat, wind drying the stalks. The windows are fogged with the humidity of the burgeoning day.

You have another few hours until Lebanon. For now, you rest, content in each other’s arms. You tell him he’s everything as you kiss him good morning. He kisses back, smiles. Sighs, and sleeps again.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream last night. Back when I watched the entire series over one summer, I had constant dreams of just driving in the front seat of the Impala with Dean, just... driving. And last night it changed to this. It was... comforting, I guess.
> 
> Also I woke up with R.E.M.'s "You Are The Everything" in my head, so there's that.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
